Chapter 5 Jamie
FIVE
JAMIE
I watch the Chicago game on the sofa alone. While live games are more exciting, there are advantages to the privacy of my own living room. I can scream at the television and nobody stares.
“Come on, baby!” I yell, clapping supportively, even if nobody can hear me. “It’s gonna work one of these times!”
Wes has taken a million shots on goal tonight, but the biggest goalie in the NHL keeps swatting them away like flies, damn him.
During the commercial break, I run for the fridge and grab a beer.
The game is scoreless until the third period, and I’m super tense.
Wes takes another shift with the second line, and I hold my breath.
When his next chance comes, I’m practically levitating with anticipation. Wes draws the goalie out of the crease with a long, risky cross to the left wing. But it works. When the wing snaps it back to Wes, he’s able to slip it into the back corner of the net before the goalie can react.
Now I’m jumping on the sofa and sloshing my beer a little, but it’s worth it. Another goal, another notch in Wes’s belt. He’s really doing it. He’s having a phenomenal rookie season, the kind that could end up in a record book. And I’m just so pumped for him.
The camera focuses on the giant goalie’s sweaty face, and I imagine I can hear the guy’s thoughts. Mountain must stay in front of net.
Snickering to myself, I sit down again and kick my feet onto the coffee table.
My sister asked me the other day if I was jealous, if I regretted passing up the chance to have my own shot, and it was easy to say no.
I can’t lie—my poor bank account could have used the signing bonus.
But if I’d gone to Detroit (where last year’s goaltenders look as solid in their jobs as they always have) I would have missed being a part of this.
That’s what I’d regret.
I watch the rest of the game with my heart in my mouth, wondering if Wes’s lead will stand.
And those last fifteen minutes of play are exciting.
Good thing I don’t have a heart condition, because Chicago answers with their own goal, and Toronto pulls a penalty.
I nearly die of stress while Wes’s team kills the penalty.
In the last two minutes Eriksson scores, and they avoid an overtime situation. Toronto takes the game, 2-1.
Limp with relief, I collapse on the sofa. And now the real waiting begins. Wes will spend a solid hour or two with his teammates, his coaches and the press. Then, because it’s a short trip back to Toronto, the team jet will fly back tonight.
I spend some time tidying up our apartment.
The kitchen is clean already because I did that earlier, so I open our mail and cringe at our heating bill.
I pay for half of the utilities and a portion of our rent, though if it were up to Wes, he’d be paying for everything.
I put my foot down when he suggested it, because I can’t live in this apartment and not contribute.
Wes’s name might be on the lease, but this is my home too, damn it.
Wes’s giant suitcase is still beside the front door where he left it after his longer road trip.
I have a little war with myself over whether to just leave it there or not.
It seems petty to wash my stuff and leave his dirty.
But I’m not quite sure what Wes thinks happens to his laundry when he leaves it in a suitcase or in a pile on our bedroom floor.
He may actually believe there’s a laundry fairy that stops by once in a while to keep him in clean underwear.
Either way, it’s bugging me. So I give in and unzip the giant bag, pulling out piles of rumpled clothing. I deposit everything in the washer and start a load.
Then I go to bed, taking care to leave a light burning in the kitchen so that Wes can find his way to me.
When I wake up, there’s light escaping around the edges of our bedroom blinds. And there’s a muscled, naked man sleeping with one tattooed arm slung around my waist. I gingerly slide toward the edge of the bed, but the arm tightens its grip. “No,” Wes says sleepily.
“Let me take a leak,” I whisper.
“Come right back.”
“Deal.” On my way to the john I glance at his relaxed face. He may have been talking in his sleep just now, he looks so passed out.
After I do my thing and brush my teeth, I duck into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
I’ve chugged half of it when I hear soft footsteps in the hall, and I turn to find Wes in the doorway, slowly stroking an ambitious-looking erection.
His gaze tracks me across the room as I set the glass in the sink.
“You didn’t come right back,” he rasps.
“Thirsty,” I mumble. I’m distracted by the seductive motion of his hand on his dick.
The blowjobs we exchanged the other night were too hurried.
Satisfying, yes, but not enough. It’s been too long since we’ve had an entire night to ourselves.
An entire night to tease and explore and drive each other wild.
“Why are you still wearing those?” Wes’s eyes gleam in the early morning light as he gestures to my boxers.
He’s got a point. My boxers drop to the tiled floor. “Why didn’t you wake me up when you got home?” I counter.
He grins. “You were deep under.” His voice is gravel, and just the familiar smoky sound of it gets my blood pumping.
“And we have a whole week.” He says these last three words the way someone else might say ten million dollars.
Wes probably already has ten million dollars.
His family is rich, and he doesn’t give a damn.
What he wants most is me. And I’d be lying if I said that didn’t light me up. Wes is never stingy with his affection.
In fact, he’s reaching for me even now, pulling me in.
I press up against his hard body and smooth skin. As our groins make contact, my hardening dick says, where you been? Wes gives me a wicked grin and reaches between us to grasp my erection. “Hi,” I say with a grin of my own.
“Hi.”
“Nice goal last night.”
“You want to chat right now?” he growls. “Because I’d rather fuck you.”
“Chat later, then?”
Wes grabs the back of my head and hauls me in for a kiss. He grunts with satisfaction as our mouths collide. His kiss is rough. Hungry.
I take over the kiss, opening him up with my tongue. Wes groans, his forehead furrowed with concentration. I thrust against him, scraping our eager dicks together, and he grabs my hips as if forbidding me to do that yet.
“Bedroom?” I manage to choke out.
He releases my mouth and gives a shake of his head. “Too far away.”
The urgency on his face summons a laugh, but the sound dies in my throat when he suddenly drops to his knees and swallows my dick before I can blink.
Sweet Jesus.
My ass bumps the counter as Wes sucks me all the way to the root.
His mouth is wet and hot and eager. My heart rate kicks up a million notches, pleasure gathering in my balls with each greedy suck and flick of his tongue.
I love what he’s doing to me, but I hate that the base of my spine is already tingling.
I’m close to coming, and that just illustrates how sex starved we’ve become with all our time apart.
Usually I have more stamina, damn it. But these days my body is so excited at the rarity of having Wes around for more than five minutes that I explode the second he touches me.
“Don’t want to come yet,” I tell him, tightening my fingers in his hair.
His mouth releases me. With a low chuckle, he rises to his feet and runs his fingertips over my jawline, lightly stroking my beard. A shiver goes through me. This man…fuck, this man. He does me in with one touch. One heated look.
“Turn around,” he whispers. “Hands flat on the counter.”
I do what he asks, and a moment later a pair of strong hands cup my ass.
He squeezes and I moan, instinctively thrusting my hips forward, only to smack my still-glistening dick on the cool, hard granite.
My hand slides down to grip my erection and I slowly rub my thumb around the head as Wes continues to knead my ass cheeks.
When his finger slides into my crease, I push back against the teasing caress, silently begging for more.
“I’ve missed this ass.” His breath tickles the nape of my neck, and then his tongue comes out for a taste, swirling over my feverish skin.
“You don’t know how many times I jerked when we were on the road.
How many times I got myself off to the thought of sliding my cock into this tight ass.
” He rubs my opening with the tip of his finger, and the sensitive nerve endings there roar to life.
My dick leaks in my hand. Shit. I’m still close. Too close. I squeeze my cockhead hard enough to bring a sting of pain, trying to curb the release that’s threatening to spill over.
“You should’ve hit me up on Skype,” I say. “We could have jerked off together.” It’s something we’ve never tried.
That gets me a strangled moan. Oh yeah, he likes that idea. But I tuck the thought away. Right now, there’s no need to think up creative ways to fuck when we’re thousands of miles apart. Because we’re together. We’re here, in the flesh, able to fuck any way we want.
“Don’t move.” His rough command echoes in the dark kitchen. I hear his footsteps disappear into the hallway. I don’t move. Anticipation builds inside me, and my dick pulses in my hand, begging for Wes to return.
He’s not gone long. I hear a clicking noise, the unmistakable sound of a cap opening.
He went to grab lube, and now his fingers are slick as he brings them back to my ass.
His slippery hand torments me, sliding between my cheeks, rubbing over my balls.
When he pushes one finger inside me, I simultaneously curse and sigh.
“So tight,” he grinds out. He slides in deeper and my muscles clamp around his finger. “You want my cock, Canning?”